


You Can't Lie to Your Heart

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 23:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4412438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If John were to describe himself in one word he'd choose 'liar' but the cycle has to end somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Lie to Your Heart

John Watson always lies.

He lied when at the age of four he broke his older sister Harry's dolls arm off by making it fight with a G.I. Joe. He'd told his mother that he accidentally dropped the toy and she hadn't bought it but she let it slide.

 

He lied when he was in the military and another soldier asked him if he and Major James Sholto were involved as it wasn't something that should be spoken aloud much less in the shining light of day where others could hear. Truth is he'd loved the man and they'd effortlessly slid into a relationship, promising to always find their way back to one another. They never said I love you, the timing wasn't right and both felt that if they spoke it aloud it might just shatter. If he'd only known...

 

He lied when he told Irene Adler that he and Sherlock weren't a couple. They'd never formally confirmed it to one another, had yet to kiss but it was _real._ He'd told one truth that day while avoiding the elephant in the room. He wasn't gay as he'd told her. He was bisexual, a fact he'd came to terms with long before he met James. He hadn't shared it with anyone since.

 

 

And so he found himself amongst bright lights and "1964" drifting through the crowded reception hall saying, with laughter that he didn't quite feel, "Don't know how those rumors got started" and with a painful lurch of his heart he whisked his new bride off into the crowd.

He hadn't missed the pain and anguish on Sherlock's face as he'd turned the other way. It cut him like a knife, slicing through years of protective layers, knocking down the few remaining walls around his heart.

 

They _had_ danced more than once. It was always late at night yet they'd pulled the curtains tight anyway and locked the door. As he'd placed his hand in Sherlock's he felt a shift in the air around them. Suddenly it was too warm and his skin tingled at the touch. Instead of putting some distance between them he'd pressed his body against Sherlock's as close as he could and simply clung to him. In turn Sherlock sighed and leaned into the dance as they waltzed around the flat and everything else had simply melted away. Under the excuse of improving John's lackluster dancing skills (to be honest he'd flubbed them so he could draw out the time they had left together) they'd met no more than three times a week and _danced._ It was, in a word, magic. John Watson wasn't the most honest man but he could admit to himself that this was the most intimate act he'd experienced in years. So naturally it burned when he had to twist the words in front of his bride.

 

 

Four months after the marriage and things were already falling apart. They fought more than they enjoyed one anothers company and John found himself taking longer hours at the clinic. He needed the distraction. Mary worked along side him but with patients and paperwork they hardly spoke.

Only last week she'd asked him to his face without softening the blow, "Do you even love me?"  

And John did what he was best at. He'd pasted on a smile and said "Of course I do, why wouldn't I?"

 

 

He reflected upon that moment as he sat in his favorite chair at he and Sherlock's flat. The marriage had taken a turn for the worse when she'd taken a gun to his best friend, nearly ripping him out of John's life and in that moment he knew. He hadn't been fooling anyone with his lies. For the sake of the baby they'd tried to make it work but all he could think about was blood, bright red on a starched white button up. Streaming onto a thick belstaf jacket as he watched the life drain from Sherlock's body. The tipping point was when, in the heat of an argument that surely the neighbors could hear, she'd informed him that the baby wasn't his. He'd like to say that he felt a pang of fear or guilt, something... _anything._ The only thing he felt was relief. They no longer had to make this marriage work when neither of them were up to the task. They'd drawn up divorce papers and finalized it and he'd moved back into 221B. Mrs. Hudson fussed over him and fretted about the way things had ended but she meant well and he knew that deep down she'd never cared for Mary.

It was raining outside and the sky was dark with the promise of a storm and so there was a warm fire blazing in the hearth as John stared at nothing in particular, caught up in his own thoughts.

"John?,"  Sherlock questioned from the other room.

They hadn't had a case in at least a week and he was getting restless. He'd taken to soaking fingers and toes in various chemicals in order to observe how they reacted.

John turned to look to the kitchen with raised brows. Sherlock was standing there with protective goggles on his face in an expensive maroon button up (John's favorite) and his favorite beige dressing gown.  He was, in a term John sparsely used, _adorable._ Charming.

"John I need your help,"  he stated as he dropped another finger into a vial of blue liquid. It popped and gurgled as it sank to the bottom.

John shuffled into the kitchen, bare feet padding across the floor as he went.

"With what?,"  he asked. He wanted no part in this experiment.

"You once told me that I was the bravest and wisest man and while I admire your expression I find myself wondering if you feel anything...more,"  he hadn't taken his gaze off of the work before him as he spoke.

John clenched and unclenched his fingers, terrified to give the wrong answer. _Is it worth it to tell the truth? What if....no. We've came this far._

 

 

"Yes,"  he decided to go with a minimalist answer as it felt safer.

Sherlock glanced up at him briefly before dropping his gaze back to the specimens.

"Would you say that you _love_ me?,"  he said in a tone so quiet that John was sure he'd heard wrong.

John hesitated for a moment as he tumbled the words around in his head. Once again he found himself drifting back to the streets of London with Sherlock at his side, fingers tightly intertwined as they made a made dash from Scotland Yard. It had hit him all at once then (he could be quite slow when it came to things of this nature) that he loved this unruly man with dark curls, pale skin and a penchant for danger. He decided then that all he ever wanted in his life was to spend it with him. There hadn't been time to voice his feelings as things took a darker path. For two years he lived with regret and pain, replaying the sickening thud of Sherlock's body hitting the pavement from atop St Barts. Everything since had been a blur leading up to this moment. To say he loved the man...well it was the biggest understatement. He loved, adored, cherished, longed for. 

"John, are you listening?,"  Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Yes, yes of course I am. Love?,"  he laughed to himself which earned him a scoff from Sherlock.

"Yes, I love you Sherlock Holmes," the words rushed out of his mouth and all at once he felt lighter.

This was enough to shake Sherlock from his rather un-important work. He lifted his head and stared at John intensely, making John's skin feel hot all over. He'd cocked his head to the side and squinted his eyes as if he hadn't expected that particular answer and wasn't sure how to cope. 

John stood there awkwardly, hands white knuckling the table but he refused to back down. He was tired of lying to himself, to everyone else in his life. For once in his life he wanted to be able to look back and say he did the right thing.

 

"Alright that's getting a little bit scary,"  John replied as he rounded the corner of the table without breaking eye contact.

 

Sherlock took in every minute detail. The quickened pulse at the side of John's neck, the slight pink twinge on his cheeks, the dangerous glint in his eye...the kind that Sherlock only seemed to catch when they were in the middle of a rather interesting case. _He means it. He actually **loves** me. _

There was no time for overthinking, for formalities and questions. John slid his hand up to the nape of Sherlock's neck, placing the other on his hipbone as he drew him in closer.

"I'm tired of living a lie,"  he said, voice hardly above a whisper, lips so close to Sherlock's that their breath mingled.

With that he allowed himself to kiss the man he'd loved for too many years (and yet not enough). Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as he gently pressed a hand to the small of Sherlock's back, as if he didn't feel he had permission to do so.

He parted his lips and allowed John's tongue to sweep along his own and he could swear he saw stars, the entire universe in that moment.

It was a deep slow kiss, the kind a person always dreams of. The type of kiss that creates a whirlwind in your stomach and heats your body from top to bottom.

Feeling braver Sherlock grabbed John's waist tightly desperately, and held on for dear life.

 

John leaned his forehead against Sherlock's as they came up for air, he felt dizzy like he were dancing on a fine line that he could cross at last and he'd arrived on the other side with heart intact.

Sherlock had never felt love like this before. He couldn't stop the laugh that escaped his mouth as he breathed John in. John smiled back and for the first time since he'd left Mary and returned to 221B, _home,_ he felt like his face might just shatter from it.

"Dance with me,"  Sherlock whispered as he took John's hand in his.

"I thought you'd never ask,"  John replied as he leaned in for a quick kiss. He couldn't get enough of this man.

Sherlock pressed a button on the stereo and a beautiful melody filled the air. Soft violin notes spoke of love and promises. It was a piece he'd recently written just for John though he never imagined he'd actually let him hear it.

 

They stood swaying together in front of the windows and this time, this time they didn't close the curtains.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, I hope you liked it. if there's any mistakes I'll correct them asap. xoxo


End file.
